


Meeting Again And Again

by Lyssicole



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: City of Light (The 100), F/F, Resolved Pining, alluded time travel, clarke and lexa happy endings, emotional whispered nothings, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssicole/pseuds/Lyssicole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clarke and Lexa meet again in the city of light--the way it should happen, not the way it probably will. Lots of good stuff for your pure little hearts, and then just enough for the not so pure hearts. Declarations of love, iconic line references, etc. Not a lot of plot just lots of beautiful interaction and then an interesting resolution. Enjoy xxx</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Again And Again

“Clarke,”

She can decipher the whisper of her name the moment her mouth closes over the key, she can sense Lexa’s timid but comforting hands the instance she sinks into the throne. It is the very throne Lexa rested upon, that Lexa peered at Clarke from with a touch of curiosity and a flood of respect. It is the throne where most everyone bowed before their Commander and yet in her final seconds of the actual world, Clarke feels most connected with Lexa’s hidden traits—the soft lilt of her voice that managed to lift Clarke from the rapids of her worries in order to breathe, the invisible tremor of her hands hidden behind her back whenever in Clarke’s presence, the mystery of such shyness—of such love—accompanying someone supposed to be so incredibly unfeeling. With Clarke, Lexa was always soft. And for that, Clarke was forever grateful. But Lexa lacked the ability to hide her affections, and Clarke had been deprived of the chance to thank her. 

So, it is fitting, that as Clarke transitions into a world that which so much different from her own, she can almost feel Lexa guiding her there. Their memories swell like wind, and as Clarke loses control of her body set on the throne, she blinks rapidly, her final sensation the smooth bridge of Lexa’s spine, marked with splendor that is exquisite underneath Clarke’s fingertips. When Clarke opens her eyes, Lexa is nowhere in sight. It is not that she is surprised. Rather, it is that she is mildly disappointed, she is hopeful and yet she does not have it in her to hope. She has memories of furs the color of the sky she saw every moment on the Ark, she can still feel Lexa’s body go lax in her arms like when people fell into the atmosphere and on earth all you could see were lights, Lexa’s all too familiar death still stirs a certain shock in her that resembles a spark. Something about it won’t allow her to rest. 

Clarke has no time to rest anyway. She is the leader of her people. She is the leader and yet she feels like a disposable warrior, she feels as though her pain is privy to no understanding. Lexa died, her lips tremble, because of me, she thinks. She tries to avoid the notion, it weakens her, it causes her to lose focus. But if it weren’t for her, perhaps things would be different. Lexa had never known peace. But as Clarke had rubbed her thumb over Lexa’s knees following her awaking from such terrifying dreams, Clarke thought maybe she could. “You’re okay,” she had said, she promised because if she had anything to do with it, Lexa would be. “You must look into the face of your warriors and say ‘Go die for me.’” Clarke can still recall the stirring truth of Lexa’s words. Oh, Lexa. I would have. For you, I would have. 

Exhaustion grips at Clarke. Her steps make a sound she’s never heard before, not like the heaviness on the tiles of the Ark, or the silent smooshing of leaves. Instead, it is like an ever so slight smash of a glass, with every step it sounds like something is breaking, something is falling and then shattering into a million pieces. 

And so, most everything falls apart when Clarke lunges forward, sprinting for the first time in months not away but rather towards. “You’re the one,” she hears, even if it’s just a whisper. These are the first words Lexa ever spoke to her, and despite many more, they are all Clarke can remember. She runs past elevators, past overturned potted plants, past mysterious thrown down brief cases. She runs for her love, her memory, her confirmation that Lexa has always been and will be it for her. 

When she reaches the corner in which she could have sworn is the source of the intrigued whisper, a slight stairway by a skyscraper, she finds nothing. She takes a deep breath and tries to ignore how the intake of air rattles in her chest like an unwanted promise, and she tries to remind herself of what she came here for. Peace for her people, above all else, she craves this. She craves a life so peaceful where if, Creator willing, Lexa could return, and they would ride side by side on horseback. Clarke can imagine it so clearly—the way their feet would brush accidently and neither would move to correct it, how when they stopped to rest, Lexa would dismount from years of experience and move to help Clarke by sheer instinct and laugh slightly at Clarke’s unyielding attempt. Clarke would always try to do things herself. Even as a kid, she would purposely color outside the lines because she found premade illustrations to be constricting, and yet at night, in this other world, Clarke would lie inside Lexa’s arms and find the boundaries comforting. And when Lexa laughed, it would be like soft music, enough to have them dancing, enough for Lexa to toss aside her Commander shoulder piece, enough for her to cry tears of joy that would wash away her war paint. When they were together, Lexa would bring no guards. The Commander underneath was just a precious human being who loved someone so much that even in the absence of weapons and of barriers, she would feel safe. 

Of course, that is not the world Clarke lives in. Not anymore, anyway. Maybe someday. For now, she would just have to survive. Even in survival, though, Clarke knows to keep the ones she loves safe. That is why she is here, in grave danger, at any second risking exposure. She must keep her people alive.

“Our people,” Lexa’s earnest voice proclaims. It is correction, but it is also an offer. It is an offer Clarke can’t quite figure out if she wishes she were more eager to take. Something about the distance between her and Lexa, the palpable tension, the burning desire not even just for each other’s hearts and minds and souls but also for the same things, the same visions for the world, something about that feels more special in that over months it built. It was special, because before it was proclaimed by either of them, it was understood by both.

“She was special,” Clarke swallows her own words, desperate to be repeated, desperate to be heard, Lexa was more than just special, she was daring, she was intelligent, she was so human Clarke couldn’t imagine someone more beautiful. If victory stands on the back of sacrifice, Clarke was suddenly falling to the ground, collapsing like she had never allowed herself, not a bullet to the gut, but instead a dagger to the heart. No one is there to catch her, though. She falls, and she is supposed to be saving her people, but she can’t even save herself. The pain has become too much. She’s not a leader. She is Wanheda, the Commander of the Death, the true Commander’s sheer opposite. “You are a leader to your people, and you shall return one.” Even Lexa’s encouragement cannot replenish her now, she is trembling on the ground, she is the sum of so many tragedies, she is the bringer of so many causalities, not anyone can survive this, not even Clarke.

Her cries conceal the sound of footsteps, footsteps that if she heard she would find resembled not the shattering of glass but instead the crackling of branches, the solemn efforts of a humble fire, not all consuming, but instead enduring and strong. Clarke sobs.

“You’re safe,” a wavering voice says, and for the first time, it is real. Clarke’s heart does not speed up, but rather stills, peace overwhelms the entirety of her being before she even looks up. Her head raises and her mouth gapes and it is halfway between a smile and an expression of shock.

“Lexa.”

It isn’t a war cry. It is a surrender. It is a culmination of all she has ever felt her whole entire life escaping her, it is relief just as much as it is fear, it is joy just as much as it is despair, Lexa, Clarke says, Lexa.

And then she is bolting toward Lexa’s moving form, she is lifting her legs to burst into Lexa’s arms that linger mere feet away, Clarke is running towards the one who was running toward her too anyway. 

Her arms grasp her love’s waste and despite the material of armor and leather and cloth, all Clarke can feel is bareness, the purity of embrace, she tucks her head into Lexa’s neck and breathes against her soothingly warm skin. When she breathes out, she knows Lexa can feel it, and for that reason, she breathes out, over and over again.

“Lexa,” she says again, as if it is a hello, as if it is an exchange of vows, Clarke would do anything just to see Lexa’s face now, to see herself reflected in the moss of her eyes, to trace the arch of her lips.

And Lexa, despite the silence besides labored breaths, knows this. So, as she pulls away only to hold Clarke closer, to cradle her face in her hands, she says it back.

“Clarke.” 

Finally, Clarke can see the face she has only most recently visited in her dreams, and in those moments, Lexa’s eyes were shut, her lips were bruised, tainted with blood. Now, they are only covered with Clarke’s own, she needs not lean or move much at all to brush against Lexa with a gentle kiss, it requires no real thought, but it speaks volumes, the natural gesture lives and breathes oh, there you are. 

“I missed you,” Clarke breaks the kiss to say, even so not releasing her hands from Lexa’s face.

“Are you hurt, Clarke?” Lexa utters, and it sounds like I missed you too, it sounds like show me and let me heal your wounds. Clarke is reminded of the lacerations and the bruises and she can only grimace.

“Yes,” Clarke breathes. “I thought there was supposed to be no pain in the City of Light.”

Lexa laughs. It is not intended to be funny, but Clarke is wry and Lexa is in love, and so the touch of teasing bitterness in Clarke’s voice is enough to make her giggle. Clarke nuzzles her nose against Lexa’s, capturing the soft laughter until it becomes only desperate breaths and then Clarke is kissing her like she has always meant to, like how she kissed her the last time they were together, but this time she kisses her like this will be the first time and Lexa loses herself in the familiar bouts of Clarke’s desires, burning and then soothing, electric and then inspiring, Lexa kisses Clarke like she wishes she could have as she took her last breath. 

This time, Lexa pulls away. “Hurt?”

Clarke shakes her head, “No.” She pauses to scan Lexa’s expression, the concerned and yet empathetic expression one of her favorites because originally so stoic, Clarke could now find a million reasons for the glimmer of a tear in Lexa’s eyes or the slight quiver of her lips. “Not one bit.” 

“You can’t leave again,” Clarke hurriedly remarks. “I don’t care how long I have to stay here. I don’t care what happens,” Clarke shakes her head again and again, “I don’t care.”

“But you do care, Clarke.” Lexa’s response is careful. It is understanding and yet it is remindful. How is it that Lexa could know Clarke better than herself? How is it that Lexa always knows when to offer Clarke the truths she has come to doubt? “You care about your people and that is why you are here. You cannot let these efforts go unfound. You care for them, Clarke. And I must make sure you do what it is that you have to.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, and she’s so close to her, wrapped in her arms once again, that it gets lost inside Lexa’s hair, tangled in the braids, buried in the strands. Even so, Lexa hears her. She always hears her. “I love you too.” 

And then Clarke is an artist and Lexa is a masterpiece, her hands roam over Lexa’s body as if there is no corner less important, less worthy, and Lexa caresses back, her fingers trace circles on Clarke’s chin, her ribs, her ankles, because just as an artist inspires art, art inspires an artist. Just as much as Clarke loves Lexa, Lexa loves her back. 

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs and Clarke offers an indistinguishable noise back. “I know how to stop this.”

Pointedly, Clarke nicks at Lexa’s neck, eliciting shivers that can’t quite align with the heat sweltering between them. Clarke quirks a brow, “I don’t think you want me to.”

Lexa bites down on her lip. “No,” she manages. “The war with A.L.I.E. The City of Light. All of it.”

Clarke traces Lexa’s hands, then the curve of her lips. “Even this?”

“No,” Lexa says, and she doesn’t add anything after. Clarke has missed that—how she could be so concrete, so straightforward. But then she adds, “I don’t want to stop this. I love you, Clarke.” 

Clarke kisses her once more and it tastes like citrus, like fresh water, like a good morning they never had. Clarke wants to believe they can have many more. She does. Lexa kisses her back.

And then they pull away at the same time, because Clarke feels something Lexa has placed in her hands. “What’s this?” She asks, her eyes still fluttered shut, her lips still against Lexa’s, probably ghosting her words against them.

“It’s the switch from Mount Weather.” 

Clarke is perplexed. “Why do you have that?” 

“To get you back to your people,” Lexa breathes, “To save mine. And yours.”

“Ours.”

“Ours.”

“How will it work,” Clarke asks.

“Major surge of electricity, I read. It will alter the present.”

“Since when do you know anything about technology?” Clarke teases, but Lexa’s face becomes solemn.

“Since I worried you would be coming. Since I realized you may not be able to get back out again.” She places her hand on the switch.

“So you read.” It’s not a question. It’s a realization.

“It will send you back, Clarke. Not only to your—our—people, but back in time. It will alter the past occurrences. There is no precision as to where you may go. But the world will shift with you.” 

“Will I remember this?” Clarke asks. It’s not a realization. It’s a hopeful question. 

“I am not sure,” Lexa says, and her voice is torn. Clarke breaks the space to kiss her and suddenly passion is their only language, Lexa doesn’t even have time to take a breath, she is lost in the reoccurring thought that this girl, this girl who fell from the sky, loves her, without hesitation, with as much vigor as a warrior. A warrior doesn’t worry about what she cannot control, and so Lexa tries not to consider that this may truly be their last meeting again. She cannot control the feeling in her chest when Clarke pulls at her lips, inquisitively, sensually. She cannot control the soft breaths that escape her as Clarke runs her fingers over the entirety of her body, and so she doesn’t try to, not one bit. 

“Then you will,” Clarke says. She places her hand over top of Lexa’s on the lever. Only when green meet blue do they both blink and do silent tears fall, falling together, they are falling in love with each other even when they lose each other, again and again. The last thing Clarke sees is Lexa on her throne, teaching the children all she lives for, Lexa in the ring, dodging a sword, Lexa inspiring her people during a war, Lexa at her door, thanking her. Thank you, Clarke gasps. 

_________

“If you so much as look at her the wrong way,” Gustus says, “I will slit your throat.” Clarke gulps. Her step forward feels heavy, like lighting striking sand and turning it to glass. Silent transformations take place, as she throws open the tent. 

The space is tight, contained, and yet it is vast, open with the all the possibilities of memories they haven’t made yet. Lexa twirls her knife like she is turning over the past, and her eyes hold intrigue, hold infatuation, hold promise. Fealty could be sworn in that seemingly menacing and yet curious first glance.

“You’re the one—” she begins.

“Yes,” Clarke cuts her off. “I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments if you enjoyed!!! come find me at flawedwonderwall on tumblr


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